Déjà Vu
by SweetSinger2010
Summary: Tony thought of Ziva's premonition as he heard the four shots ring out. They might as well have been ripping in to his own chest. When he saw her lying cold in autopsy that night, he wished they had.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Here's a story that I thought up after an improvisation assignment in theater, of all things. I'm hoping that it ends up a little differently than the regular Tiva stuff you see on this site. I've been an NCIS buff since I was twelve, though I've only recently begun writing fan-fics for it. I'm juggling a couple at once, so I apologize in advance for any delays in updates. Give me a shout-out and let me know what you think, and offer suggestions for improvement! Hope you enjoy!

Déjà Vu

_Chapter 1_

"I _love_ domestic life," Special Agent DiNozzo proclaimed gustily to no one as he took the last of many crime scene photos. "So quiet, so mundane. And yet, so totally unpredictable." Tony stepped back and regarded the profound meaning of his words, obviously impressed with himself. "I bet this guy didn't expect to end up dead today."

He leaned over and zoomed the camera in on four holes in a dead man's back; through-and-through bullets taken in the chest and stomach.

"This reminds me of something," he muttered, familiar chills rolling down his spine. "_More_ than one 'something'," he amended, shaking his head. "But not a movie."

Tony busied himself, needlessly, scrutinizing the body, capturing every possible angle in photograph. He focused only on the images of _this_ body, trying to rid those of Jenny Sheppard and Michael Rivkin from the foreground of his thoughts. It was the same way with every body they found like this: a cheek pressed roughly against the ground, lying on the stomach, blood pooling underneath. Tony couldn't help remembering, even though all he'd been trying to do was forget, and forget everything—especially his own involvement.

Though wrapped up in his own troubled ruminations, Tony could still hear the unmistakable screech of tires as a vehicle came to an abrupt halt in front of the house. The absence of bickering told him everything he needed to know about the person who was, even now, presenting their credentials, ducking under the crime scene tape, and rounding the corner of the house, entering the backyard. DiNozzo listened to the footfalls, his every sense attuned to their owner.

Appropriately, it was the only person in the world who might understand his aversion to this particular crime scene.

Looking through the camera's viewfinder, Tony turned his already-divided attention away from the corpse and whirled around, snapping a picture as he about-faced. His mouth turned up in a grin.

"Well good morning Agent Dah-veed!" He greeted his partner loudly, placing emphasis on each syllable, a smirk in his voice. "You are _laaate_." He hit the shutter button again, just for the juvenile pleasure of seeing her wince and shy away from the blinding flash. Ziva glared daggers.

"Good morning, Tony," she replied sourly, ignoring his last comment. Looking for any excuse to escape him, Ziva stepped around Tony and surveyed the dead Marine lying in the grass. She took into account the surroundings, casting a glance over the serene neighborhood.

"Such a violent murder to be committed on base," she murmured. "Who is he?"

"Gunnery Sergeant…" Tony's voice trailed off when he couldn't read the name he'd scribbled in his notepad. He squinted, performing the trombone maneuver to see if it would help sharpen his distorted scrawl. "Uhhh, Gunnery Sergeant…"

"Thompson," Ziva supplied at length.

"How do _you_ know?" Tony asked, chagrined. "You just got here."

"Have you paid _any_ attention to what you've been doing?" The irritated note in her voice clearly indicated that she didn't think he had. She crouched over the body, pointing to the easily visible dog-tag which had twisted around and was lying just under the man's chin.

"Huh." Tony frowned, printing clearly this time in his notebook the information that would be needed back in the bullpen to run a search for the man's records. He picked up the camera hanging from his neck and photographed the tag, just in case he'd missed it in one of his earlier shots.

"Thank you, Zee-vaahh," he said glibly, flashing a cheesy grin. She looked at him blackly, absolutely no trace of humor in her expression. Perversely, Tony thought it one of her most becoming. "Gee," he began flippantly, foolishly underestimating the extent of her mood, "I sure hope your day is as bright as your smile!"

The camera flashed again.

A moment of disorientation followed a blur of quick movement. Tony wondered dazedly _why_ his back was making full contact with the ground, and why he couldn't breathe. The question answered itself when he registered Ziva's face hovering a breath away from his own, and the muzzle of her service weapon nestled cozily against his sternum.

"Sorry." He grunted. Her eyes narrowed into slits.

"You _will_ be," Ziva growled threateningly. Her voice was low in her throat. "I am not in the mood for your antics, Tony, and _this_," she swung her arm toward the corpse, "is _not_ how I wanted to start my day."

Tony swallowed nervously, acutely aware of the loaded gun on his chest, and the irate Israeli pressing herself against him. He was also aware of the way her jaw tightened when she had looked at the body.

"You know," he began huskily, "the last time you had me in this position—do you remember the last time you had me in this position? It was in Tel Aviv," Tony rambled uneasily, "Actually—now that I think about it—it was kinda hot, even though you were trying to kill me, and I—"

"No, Tony, I was _not_ trying to kill you in Tel Aviv, but I might kill you _now_ if you do not stop with the pictures. Stop it!" Ziva hissed menacingly, grabbing his face, forcing him to look in her no-nonsense eyes. She jerked her hand, forcibly re-directing his gaze to fall on the dead Marine. "Or else I will personally see to it that you end up like _him._ Understood?"

"Heard you loud and clear," Tony rasped. He flinched under Ziva's death-glare. "Sorry."

"You two about done?"

Their heads snapped toward Gibbs, who had seemingly materialized behind them. Ziva straightened immediately, holstering her gun.

"I think so," she answered drily, shooting one more look at Tony. She didn't help him up.

A flicker of amusement passed over Gibbs's face before he addressed his senior field agent. "DiNozzo, what have you got?"

"Dead Marine. Gunnery Sergeant Thompson." Tony rolled over and pushed up from the ground. He ambled around the body, recounting details of the as-yet-brief investigation. "Shot four times; twice in the chest, twice in the stomach. We bagged and tagged the slugs, twenty-two cals."

"Any witnesses?"

"McGee's casing all the neighbors."

Gibbs nodded. "Ducky?" The _Where is?_ was understood.

"He might be a while," Ziva said wryly. "I saw the van in traffic on my way over here. Palmer was driving, and Ducky was giving directions. They'll be at least another half hour."

Gibbs said nothing, but took a sip of his coffee and turned away.

"Boss?" Tony queried, following after him.

"Gonna go see what the neighbors had to say."

"Nothing," McGee informed as the trio reached the front of the house. "We got nothing, Boss."

"_Nothing?_"

"Well, um," McGee shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "Mrs. Channing next door did say that she heard some yelling and screeching tires around midnight, but, uh, she also said that there have been several domestic disturbances at the Thompsons' in the last two years, so she really didn't think anything of it."

"Nobody heard any gunshots? There were four."

"No, Boss. The shooter must have used a silencer."

"You said domestic disturbance," Ziva pointed out. "Where's Thompson's wife?"

Three pairs of eyes turned to McGee for an answer. He didn't have one.

"Good job, McGoogle," Tony smirked mockingly. He sobered when Gibbs fixed him with a reproving look. The corner of Ziva's mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

The leader's sharp eyes scanned and evaluated everything around him as his mind engaged in finding the best plan of attack. "DiNozzo," he spoke after draining the last of his coffee. "I want you and Ziva to go back to NCIS and give the slugs to Abby. Find everything there is to find out about Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. McGee and I'll wait here for Ducky."

"Got it, Boss."

Tony peeled off his latex gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of his windbreaker as he and Ziva ducked under the crime scene tape and made their way to her car. He eyed it with a bit of trepidation, wondering just how safe a small thing like that really was.

"Here," Ziva said, tossing him the keys. "I do not want to drive."

"Wow!" Tony exclaimed in real surprise, fumbling the catch in his momentary stupor. "Are you sick or somethin'?"

Ziva glowered at him as they climbed in to her car. Tony was awkwardly shoved up against the steering wheel until he adjusted the seat to accommodate his height. He started the engine, and the radio blared to life. Ziva jumped so violently that she hit her head on the car's ceiling and swore as she frantically hit almost every button on the dash in an effort to turn it off.

"_Hateful_ car!" The radio had _not_ been on when she'd pulled up to the crime scene.

"Whoa, there!" Tony looked over and saw that Ziva had her elbow on the windowsill, leaning her head on her hand. "Maybe you _are_ sick." Real concern crept into his eyes.

"It is only a headache," Ziva responded irritably.

"You don't get headaches."

"Well, I have one now, Tony. Can we just leave?"

"Yes m'am," he muttered. He put the car into gear and tapped the gas. It shot down the street.

"Geez, David! What did you _do_ to this thing?"

Ziva managed to laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I feel like I'm writing clumsily. (Although maybe that's because I'm half-asleep.) I'd appreciate suggestions for improvement. I want to write this story right (ha, punny!) and who better to give me advice than ardent fans like yourselves? Enjoy chapter two!

Déjà Vu

_Chapter 2_

Hours later, all members of the team were assembled back in the office. They stood around the plasma, Gibbs in the center, a fresh coffee in hand.

"Tell me what we know."

McGee pressed a button on the remote, and a photo appeared. "Gunnery Sergeant Parker Thompson, age thirty-three. Exemplary service record, with two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Married to Elizabeth Wallace since 2006."

"Family?"

"A sister-in-law, Miss Catherine Wallace," Tony interjected smoothly as McGee opened his mouth to speak. "We've got her in interrogation."

"Well, did you _question_ her, DiNozzo?"

"I did, Gibbs," Ziva said, massaging her temple. "She was absolutely hysterical. I could hardly understand a word she said through all her blubbering and I was about ready to—"

"The _point_, Ziva?" Gibbs interrupted impatiently. The brunette caught herself and reorganized her thoughts.

"She says she was at the Thompsons' when the shooting took place just before midnight. Claims to have been upstairs when invaders stormed the house, took the Gunnery Sergeant out back, and dragged his wife out screaming."

"And then?"

"She heard four gunshots, yelling, and a car fleeing the scene."

"Just like the neighbor said," McGee said, nodding.

Tony shook his head. "So, if she was in the house, then how come we didn't find any trace of her?"

"Because she didn't want us to," asseverated Gibbs. He turned to Ziva. "Did the witness see who abducted her sister?"

A frown appeared between honey-brown eyes. "No-o, she did not." Ziva chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Which does not make sense…"

"Because she said she saw Mrs. Thompson get dragged out the door," Tony finished. He glanced at Ziva, trying to gauge her. Interrogation was her specialty. She didn't make mistakes like failing to detect when a witness was lying.

"Oh, I bet she did, since she was involved," Gibbs commented dryly as he deposited his coffee cup in the trash can. The team dispersed. "McGee."

"Trace her phone calls, e-mails, and bank activity," he self-instructed. "Got it, Boss."

"Get Abby to help." Gibbs turned to his senior agent. "DiNozzo, go back to the house. See if there's anything that we missed."

Tony rose from his chair, holstering his weapon and shouldering his backpack. "On my way, Boss."

Gibbs grabbed his arm roughly as he began to walk past. "_After_ you take her home." Gibbs motioned to Ziva, who sat looking very drained as she rested her head in her hand. She looked up at him confusedly.

"You made a mistake." Gibbs answered in response to her unvoiced question, leaning over her desk, looking closely at her with his sharp, all-seeing eyes.

"I am being punished?"

"No." Gibbs smiled at her simplicity of thought. "If you were being punished, I'd stick you with DiNozzo."

"That hurts, Boss," he muttered. Gibbs walked around and stood behind Ziva's chair, pulling it away from the desk

"You look terrible. You feel terrible. Go home, get some rest."

Ziva hesitated. Sighing, she gathered her things. "Thank you, Gibbs."

He helped her to her feet and pecked her cheek quickly. Turning to leave the bullpen, he ordered severely, "Take an aspirin. We'll need you tomorrow."

--

The drive to Ziva's apartment was made in silence. She was in no mood for small talk, and Tony was concentrating on driving as carefully as possible, so as to avoid any bumps or maneuvers that might exacerbate her headache. This caring effort did not go unnoticed. Ziva glanced sideways at him as they walked slowly up the four flights of stairs to her apartment.

"I appreciate this, Tony." She spoke softly, unlocking her door. She took a step inside and hung on the door frame, allowing her hand to rest on his. He had assumed a similar posture.

Coloring slightly, he returned, "No problemo. I'm just stalling; I don't really _want_ to go back to the office. Nothing but work, work, work, all the time."

Ziva saw straight through the pretense. "I'd ask you to stay."

"I'd invite myself if you didn't, David." He frowned, his voice low. He dropped the pretending "You need me."

She dropped her eyes. "Yes."

"I've been worried about you all day," Tony admitted. "You're _never_ sick. But it's not just that, is it?" He searched her face, lifting her chin. "There's something else, isn't there?"

"I hardly know. I feel…I feel something strange."

Tony's forehead creased with worry. "What, like a gut instinct?"

"No," she murmured. "More like a…a premonition." She shuddered. "I feel like something bad is going to happen."

Tony laid a finger over her lips and with his other hand, brushed her smooth cheek with the backs of his fingers. His frown deepened, perturbed that her skin felt too warm. "_Nothing_ will ever happen to you as long as I'm around." His eyes spoke the depths of his sincerity. "I give you my word."

Though touched by the sentiment, Ziva couldn't help rolling her eyes at his naiveté, and she reluctantly withdrew from his touch. "I rarely worry about myself anymore, Tony."

He blinked, allowing the statement to sink in. They gazed at each other for several long moments.

Finally, Tony turned to leave. "I'll swing by to pick you up in the morning," he said over his shoulder. He didn't dare glance back at her, knowing that if he did, he might not have the strength to leave her again. "Take some meds and hit the sack."

Ziva closed the door after he'd gone, leaning against it for several minutes before wearily undressing and dropping into bed. She fervently hoped that complete silence and darkness would help ease the throbbing behind her eyes. She immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Tony, sitting across the street in his car, didn't drive off until he looked up at the building and knew that his partner's light was out. On his way back to NCIS, he mulled over the day's events. It didn't sit well with Tony that something didn't sit well with Ziva. Headaches and premonitions?

"Somethin's hinky," he muttered under his breath. Lights in the bullpen were dim when arrived at his desk. He no sooner sat down than realized that he was supposed to have gone back to the dead Marine's house looking for additional evidence. He kicked a drawer aggressively as he grabbed his gear. He strode to the elevator and punched the call button. Presently, the doors opened. Tony wasn't surprised to see Gibbs stepping out.

"Ziva?" The older man inquired tersely.

"Asleep," Tony replied. "Looked like she was working on a migraine. I used to get those in college after—uh, never mind." He changed the subject quickly after seeing the look on his boss's face. "I'm going back to Thompson's house."

"Good. Call me if you find anything. And get yourself some coffee."

"I don't want any," he said dumbly.

"You _will_, at two a.m. when you're sifting through Thompson's personal records."

"Right. Why didn't I think of that?" DiNozzo's voice was bitterly sarcastic. He stepped in the elevator and hit all of the buttons in childish aggravation. "I freakin' _hate_ Mondays."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I hadn't originally intended to write one of these, but moments ago, I decided to address the words of a kind reviewer. I realized that the chronological setting of this story is a bit ambiguous. For those of you who may not be up-to-date with season seven or who, like myself, sometimes forget the depth of DiNozzo and David's complicated relationship: substitute this for the next new episode, if you like. Take into account the occurrences (or non-occurrences) of the January episode "Jetlag". Remind yourself that, as revealed in the season four episode "Shalom," Tony makes frequent visits to Ziva's apartment. (Though that likely stopped for a while on account of the whole Rivkin thing.) Our two favorite agents may not be fully recovered from post-Aliyah incidents, and they may or may not be "together," but they sure do dance around the edges! So, take from that what you will, and enjoy!

Déjà Vu

_Chapter 3_

Tony DiNozzo was not above using a little concealer under his eyes when he wanted to look less worn than he felt. A little dab, a little coffee, and voila! He looked good as new. Or, rather, he looked like he hadn't gotten only two hours of sleep the previous night. Or morning, as it were.

He arrived home and fell into bed at four a.m., rising again at six. He took longer than usual in the shower, allowing the scalding hot water to ease tired muscles and mind. He donned a pair of light grey dress pants and a lavender button down, deciding to wax Christopher Meloni by rolling up the sleeves to the elbow and leaving the top two buttons undone. He finished his nonchalant look by dabbing his fingers in a loose-hold styling paste and running them through his hair. By seven thirty, he'd finished his ministrations and treated himself to a quick breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs. He was usually in the office well before now, but Gibbs' last instruction had been for him to wait as long as possible before picking Ziva up to come to work. Tony had done just that, waiting until eight-fifteen to rap lightly on her door.

When she didn't open it, he turned the knob. Finding it unlocked, he let himself in.

"Ziva?" He called tentatively, taking a few steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him. No lights were on, save one. Judging by the soft glow, there was a lamp lit in her bedroom. He proceeded cautiously, fearing that at any moment he would find himself staring down the barrel of her gun. Again.

He entered her room and perched on the edge of her bed, placing his hand atop her pillow. It and the covers were still warm. He glanced at his watch.

"Did you _just now_ wake up?" He asked incredulously, not bothering to announce his presence, casting a glance over his shoulder. Her bathroom door was slightly ajar, and he caught her reflection in the mirror. Sopping curls lay matted around her shoulders. Promptly, DiNozzo's line of vision was interrupted by solid wood.

"Ten minutes ago," Ziva replied, muffled by the closed door. She was less surprised than she should have been to hear his voice. "I overslept."

"Clearly," Tony muttered. Aloud: "How you feeling?"

"Better." She opened the bathroom door and stepped out, now fully dressed. Tony, with a knowing smirk, strode to the opposite wall and flipped a switch. She gasped, as if in pain, and a hand flew to cover her eyes. He positioned himself in front of her.

"Liar. You look worse."

Blindly, she returned to the sink in the bathroom and refused to meet his eyes in the mirror as she began her simple make-up routine. "I had a _migraine_, Tony. They do not just disappear."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "You sure you're feeling up to going to work today? I have a feeling it's gonna get kinda hairy."

Tony's considerable frame filled the doorway, blocking any escape. She pretended not to notice. Her interest piqued, she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" Totally bypassed his question. He let it drop.

"Uh-huh. We stayed up late last night, sifting through every kind of record you can think of. It was a regular party down in Abby's lab until McDork just _had_ to say something to tick her off, and then—Well, anyway," DiNozzo changed his tune when he began to feel exasperated eyes boring into his forehead. He grinned. "We got major dirt on the sister-in-law. Drugs, theft, prostitution; the works."

"Lovely," Ziva sneered. "I knew there was a reason that I did not like her."

"Your instincts serve you well, my young Padawan." Tony leaned forward with a disquisitive air. "What else does the Force tell you?"

Ziva's hand, holding a cosmetic brush, fell still on her cheekbone mid-stroke as she thought carefully.

"She is involved in the gunnery sergeant's shooting _and_ his wife's kidnapping," she said slowly. Her hands resumed their work, more quickly than before.

"E-zackly!" Tony nodded vigorously, grinning excitedly. "That's not all. Turns out, _Mrs. Thompson_ is involved in Mrs. Thompson's kidnapping, which we might _just now_ be figuring out, if not for yours truly."

Tony took a deep breath, proud, and blathered on. "After I dropped you off last night, I went back to the house. Crawled around on my hands and knees for an hour before I found the sister's cell. It was like finding a _gold mine_."

"Congratulations," she said drily.

"So anyway, seems like our gunny was a wife-beater, and the misses wanted to put a stop to it."

"By having him killed?"

There was a short pause. "Noo," Tony said, narrowing his eyes. Ziva could almost _see_ his brain turning, deductive reasoning combining with instinct to tackle the case. She ducked under the arm he'd propped up on the doorframe and sat on her bed, quickly lacing her shoes.

"Well?" She prompted, a touch impatiently. He hadn't shifted from his stance.

"Somethin's hinky," he murmured. "Why would she have him killed and _then_ stage her own kidnapping?"

Turning abruptly, he crossed the room in two strides and plucked her backpack from a chair, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Let's go, David!" He called as he hurriedly left the apartment, leaving her to scamper in his wake.

"What are you thinking?" She huffed, unusually winded by their run downstairs, as she climbed in the front seat of his car.

"Thought we had all the pieces of the puzzle, but we shoved one in backward," he mused cryptically, putting the car in gear and gunning it. Ziva, perhaps wisely, didn't ask what he meant. At a red light, he glanced over and saw the massive aviator sunglasses shrouding her eyes. Light sensitivity. And her pallor was more striking in the natural light than it had been before. In a total disregard for personal space, Tony leaned across her lap and opened the glove-box, tossing up a bottle of Motrin.

"According to my gut," he explained, prompted by her questioning stare, "it's going to be a long day. Don't wanna see that glazed look in your eyes if we run in to trouble."

Ziva understood what he really meant: I don't want to have to worry about you. Compliantly, she tossed back her head and downed five.

--

"We missed something!" Tony's voice resonated through the whole office as he and Ziva stepped out of the elevator.

"Really, Tony?" McGee looked up with a glare as his teammates entered the bullpen.

"Your sarcasm is duly noted, McGrouch."

DiNozzo kicked his feet up onto his desk and reclined in the chair, hands behind his head.

"What've we got?"

"Nothing new." McGee frowned pensively. "Boss is going to be back any minute, and he wants answers."

"But there aren't any," Tony continued, reiterating, "Because we missed something."

"_What_, though?"

Tony stood, pacing the floor between their desks. "Probie, did you and Abby go through their e-mails?"

"What e-mails?"

"From the laptop I brought from Thompson's place."

"No," the junior agent said slowly. "We were busy with the text messages and—"

Tony leaned ominously over McGee's desk. "Well—do you think you oughta—check that out?" He tried on his best John Wayne impersonation.

McGee glared again, but rose from his chair. The three agents filed down to the lab.

--

"You can stop gloating, Tony."

The sound of a condescending laugh grated on Tim's nerves.

"And _why_ would I want to do to that, McGoo?"

"I don't know—maybe because it's rude?" McGee snapped back, his patience severely waning.

"Not to mention annoying," Ziva added slyly, catching Tony's eye. He rearranged his features to mock hers.

"How 'bout juvenile?"

Like children caught in the pantry, the team about-faced when they heard the voice.

Gibbs strode into the lab with a spring in his step that the other adults considered unnatural, since the boss, too, had pulled an all-nighter. Whether or not he was oblivious to their incredulous looks and half-scowls, he issued the expected:

"What've you got?"

Abby smiled her bright, black-lipstick smile, accepting a Caf-Pow and kiss on the cheek from Gibbs.

"Our three geniuses realized that going through e-mails on the vic's computer could prove beneficial to the case. I was about a gazillion steps ahead when they came in half an hour ago."

The forensic scientist's gravelly voice was triumphantly smug, and rightly so. Gibbs fixed his junior and senior field agents with a look that said, _Really?_ They had the decency to look abashed.

"It only took me, like, an hour to read all the messages," Abby continued. She projected a few on to the plasma, highlighting key elements. "The ones on the left are from Catherine Wallace to her sister, our dead gunny's wife. The ones on the right are the messages that Mrs. Thompson wrote back."

"Basically, Boss," Tony jumped in, eager to showcase what he _did_ know, "Mrs. Thompson wanted to teach her husband a lesson, courtesy of her sister's motley crew. They were just supposed to come in and rough him up a little. But the plan backfired when…"

"When the sisters got into an argument." McGee picked up on cue. "We don't know what about—we think it happened over the phone—but it explains how the gunnery sergeant ended up dead."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "So you're telling me that Wallace shot her brother-in-law out of spite?"

Tony frowned, taken aback. "It sounds kinda dumb when you say it like that, Boss."

"It _is_ 'kinda dumb,' DiNozzo. There's gotta be more than that."

"Whoa!" Abby's sudden cry indicated that she had found the 'more' that Gibbs was looking for. He turned to where she and Ziva sat at the computer.

"What is it, Abs?"

"Wallace has _major_ gang ties. Her buddies are all with the nastiest crew in D.C."

Ziva nodded. "Judging by her e-mails, it looks like she owes one of the _jefes_ money."

"She didn't have it, so she tapped her sister, but Thompson refused," Tony conjectured slowly.

McGee finished their collective train of thought. "The boss really wanted his money, so when he saw an opportunity, he took it. He shot the gunnery sergeant and kidnapped the wife, threatening to kill her too if Wallace can't pay up."

The trio looked to Gibbs; he nodded. "Sounds good. Abby, run a trace on the sister's cell."

"Done and done!" Abby answered cheerily, having anticipated this next command. She scrawled an address on a sticky note and gave it to Gibbs, who then handed it to Tony.

"DiNozzo, you and McGee go arrest her and bring her in for questioning. We need to find out where our dead guy's wife is being held."

Tony and McGee exchanged confused looks. "Um, what are we arresting her for, Boss?"

An eloquent look was the only reply Gibbs gave.

"Right," Tony self-answered, backtracking. "We'll think of something."

He and McGee wasted no time in leaving. Gibbs turned back to the two women.

"Abs, those partial prints Ducky pulled from the body? Run them against known gang members."

Abby saluted. "Yes, sir!"

"David, with me."

Ziva followed him out of the lab, matching his swift stride. "Where are we going?"

"Gonna go question the gang-bangers, see what they know."

They stepped in the elevator. Gibbs shoved his cup of coffee into her hands. Smirking a little, he shook his head.

"You need it more than I do."

A/N: Alriiiiight, so maybe this was an excessively long filler chapter. But it _does_ lead somewhere, I promise. Crime and forensics aren't my thing, so bear with me as I clumsily push my way through. And can anyone please tell me how to preserve the formatting of my documents when I upload them? The line breaks are funky and my paragraph indentations are totally lost. (Are all fan-fics like this and I'm just now noticing?) Any tips on formatting will be mucho appreciated, because sometimes the way a story is presented visually can be just as important as the way it is presented grammatically. Thanks!

~SweetSinger2010


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: This chapter is short, but it's on purpose, according to my master plan. And you'll be glad to know that I'm making progress with this story. I'm like two chapters ahead of myself here, and it's taking a lot of willpower not to upload everything I've got. You'll be glad to know that I'm making progress with this story. :) Thanks for the reviews from last time! Keep 'em coming! Disclaimer: It ain't mine.

Déjà Vu 

_Chapter 4_

Ziva was the only one who didn't have a white- knuckle grip on something as Gibbs drove. She rode shotgun, Tony and McGee shoved in the backseat. She half-turned toward them, a coy smile playing on her lips.

"McGee told me, but I think I misunderstood; remind me again, Tony, on what grounds you arrested Miss Wallace?"

"Assaulting a federal agent," he growled, gingerly touching a split and swollen lower lip. Ziva laughed.

"You let a _woman_ strike you?"

"Wasn't the first time." He glared pointedly.

"And _still_ you have not struck back," Ziva mused lightly. Her expression was so comically innocent that McGee had to smother a smile.

Tony flushed with wounded, indignant pride. "I was raised better than that," he quipped, voice rising. "Although I might make an exception for you. Just name the time and place, David, and we'll—"

"No, you _won't_, DiNozzo." Gibbs interrupted, finally having had enough of their banter. "How far are we from the warehouse?"

"About four blocks, Boss," McGee replied. "Are we sure she was telling the truth? I mean, how do we even know that this is the right place?"

"Because Catherine Wallace has nothing to gain by lying."

"Boss is right," Tony groused. "She's already under arrest. Plus, she knows that we're gonna take care of her little gang problem and rescue her sister into the bargain. So, no. She's not lying."

The car screeched to a halt at the side of an abandoned industrial warehouse. The agents saw someone with a sawed-off shotgun looking out of an upper-story window.

"We've got company," Gibbs called as they climbed out of the car. "Vest up."

He popped the trunk and Tony handed out the life-saving articles.

"Alright," Gibbs began after he shrugged back in to his winkdbreaker. His piercing eyes swept the location as he formulated a tactical plan. "McGee and I will take the fire escape to the top floor. Tony, you and Ziva clear the bottom. We don't shoot until shot at, understood? Mrs. Thompson's safety is our first priority."

Gibbs made eye contact with each of his agents. They nodded seriously in turn. It was all business now.

"Let's go."

Gibbs and McGee moved out. Ziva took several steps before realizing that Tony was not with her. She turned and saw him still standing at the rear of the car, staring into the empty trunk. Something about the hard set of his jaw was unsettling. The unexplained dread she'd felt the day before washed over her with a wave of nausea.

"Tony?" She commanded her voice to remain steady. Instantly, his head shot up in response. He shut the trunk of the car and zipped his jacket almost to his chin as he jogged toward her.

There was something strange in his smile when he said, "Hey you're not getting squeamish on me, are you? 'Cause you're lookin' a little—"

"Don't be insulting," she snapped irritably. Her concern evaporated.

"Fine, then."

They took their position, standing on either side of a rusted, sagging door. Tony's eyes held no gravity now. Ziva waited for his instruction.

"Stay behind me," he ordered tersely. She bristled.

"Is that really ne—"

"Yes! It is." His face was in hers. "I'll go in, attract attention. You're going to be three steps behind me. Pop anyone who looks like they're gonna pop _me_, and it all works out." He dropped his voice an octave and spoke deliberately. "I want you _on my six_."

He straightened. For the first time in their entire acquaintance, Ziva found herself flinching under his hard gaze. She didn't dare argue.

Tony took a deep, steadying breath.

"Go."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This chapter (and the last one, too, I suppose) is short, but potent. Pay attention, and fasten your seatbelts! I'm so excited by where this is going that I'm jumping ahead in my update schedule, against better judgment. And people, I know you read this story. I see the alerts, read the stats. Review! I'm dying to know what you think of this, 'cause I'm working really hard to make it just right. If I don't hear from you, I'll contrive a way to kill the entire MCRT, and I _won't_ repent! That being said, let's begin. :)

Déjà Vu 

_Chapter 5_

_One, one._

Shots fired back to back.

Tony wasn't exactly sure who's weapon discharged first—Ziva's or the thug's. But DiNozzo was willing to put his money on Ziva since, as predicted, the thug _had_ tried to pop him. The bullet embedded in a wall. Ziva's was a kill-shot.

They moved silently and stealthily through the room.

"Clear."

Ziva nodded. Tony kicked in another door.

_Not_ clear.

Six losers. Tony made a split-second count and simultaneously fired at the tattooed freak who had his twenty-two primed and aimed at Ziva's head.

_One and five. _

For the next minute, it was like all of hell broke loose. So many shots were fired that he couldn't count them all. Couldn't hear anything, either. The only thing that registered in the blur was the pulsing in his hand, weapon discharging. Ziva was a wisp in his periphery.

He dared to look over at her, when it was over. She winced, the ringing in her ears sharp and painful. Together, they surveyed the scene. Chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline, Tony asked conspiratorially,

"They _did_ shoot first, _right_, Ziva?"

She flashed something much like a grin. "Absolu—"

_One, two, three, four, five six._

Fired in rapid succession. One of them took two, the other four.

But Tony felt _every_. _single_. _bullet_. Ripping into his own flesh when he heard her strangled cry, saw her fall.

He staggered backward and his head met the concrete with a sickening crack. DiNozzo felt like he'd been disembodied. He saw himself expend tremendous effort to pull up on one knee, shoot and kill one of the scum-bags they'd left injured on the floor. Saw himself fight against unconsciousness, gasping, coughing, choking for air as he crawled toward his partner. They'd hit him full in the chest.

Maybe it was the massive head-bang. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his lungs were in the process of deciding not to work. Maybe it was because when he looked at unconscious Ziva, he remembered what she said yesterday about premonitions. Or maybe it was because he was flashing back to an empty, sand-coated diner in California.

Whatever the case, Tony felt _sick_.

Ziva was non-responsive when he rasped out her name. Tony figured, she must have gone down pretty hard, probably had some broken ribs and major bruising. Getting shot tended to do that to a person, even to a former-Mossad-ninja like Ziva David. _Weeeeellllll_, he thought as he felt his chest tighten even more, _It's gonna be a fun afternoon at the hospital for the both of us._

The few feet felt like unending yards as he dragged himself to her. She lay with a side of her face pressed in the ground, her dominant arm outstretched, slender fingers loosely curled around her weapon just inches away. Tony couldn't control the violent trembling of his own hand enough to feel for a pulse in her neck. Darkness crowded his vision as breathing became more and more difficult. Then the out-of-body feeling came again.

His hands had come to rest in a warm liquid, colored dark, brilliant red. It pooled beneath Ziva's body.

She was bleeding out.


	6. Chapter 6

Déjà Vu 

_Chapter 6_

_ "Wow, DiNozzo. You __**really**__ screwed up this time."_

_ The words echoed hollowly in his ears. The berating tone of voice was one that he recognized immediately, even though he hadn't heard it in five years. He whirled to face her. They were in the bullpen. She sat perched on the front of McGee's desk, legs crossed at the ankles, looking as normal and polished and professional as she always had. No hole in her forehead, no school-girl uniform._

_ "Kate?" _

_ "Tony." She mirrored his inflection, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. He drew himself to his full height, and they sized each other up. Then Kate smiled disarmingly. _

_ "Have you missed me?"_

_ Tony grunted. "Until now."_

_ Kate laughed, and he grinned in spite of himself at the sound. Sobered when rooftops and sniper-fire absently came to mind._

_ "So am I dreaming, or what?" Tony asked himself just as much as he asked Kate. Her smile faded, too._

_ "You're unconscious," she sighed. "And I'm dead, remember?"_

_ "Yeah." He shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. "I remember."_

_ A worried crease appeared between Kate's expressive dark eyes. "You look terrible." Tony sat beside her on the desk, hearing the question disguised by blunt observation._

_ "I got shot." Pause. "__**We**__ got shot," he amended quietly. The words were bitter in his mouth. _

_ "You and McGee?"_

_ "Me and Ziva. She took four to the chest and abdomen." His voice was leaden. He took a painful breath and continued in a rush. "She's dead."_

_ Kate laid a hand on his arm in compassion. "I'm so sorry, Tony."_

_ He shrugged carelessly. "Not the first time it's happened." He glanced sideways at her, pointedly. "But I guess you already knew that."_

_ Kate looked hard in his eyes. "It's not your fault," she said lowly. "Tony," she spoke insistently when he didn't respond. "It isn't."_

_ At that moment, DiNozzo wasn't sure whether they were talking about Ziva's death, or about Kate's. He felt responsible for both. _

_ "Whatever," he snorted derisively. "You said yourself, I really screwed up." _

_ Kate rolled her eyes in aggravation. "And here I thought you'd gotten smarter." _

_ "Hey! What's that sup—"_

_ "Shhh," she cut him off, placing an elbow in his ribs. "Look."_

_ They stood and moved to the center of the bullpen. Tony's mouth fell open when he saw his five-years-younger self talking to Ziva, the very first time they met. He couldn't hear the conversation, but he didn't need to. He remembered everything they'd said. _

_ He turned to watch the young Israeli as she made herself comfortable in McGee's chair, slouching "provocatively," as he'd said. She sat with her hips forward, legs crossed, as she swept the scarf from her head and shook out her abundant curls. Her lips quirked and her dark eyes sparkled brilliantly. Tony was mesmerized. The Ziva David he met five years ago was a stunning woman. He'd forgotten how smooth and engaging her expression had been. How young and fresh she'd looked before Jeanne, before Jenny, before Morocco, before Rivkin, before Somalia...before death. _

_ His throat clogged with unshed tears._

_ He reached out to touch her, to stroke her velvety cheek, but withdrew abruptly, turning back to Kate. _

_ "You said I screwed up." It was a statement and a question. He demanded the answer with his eyes. _

_ Kate folded her arms across her chest. "Yeah. Did you ever tell her you loved her, DiNozzo?"_

_ He stared, blinking. What was he supposed to __**say**__ to that?_

_ His former partner shook her head, disappointed by his response, or rather, the lack thereof. "I didn't think so."_

Tony started awake at the knock on his door. He waited for his eyes to focus before rising to cross his apartment. The knock had become more insistent by then.

"Time to go," McGee said quietly when Tony answered the door. The older man turned away.

"I'm driving myself." Tony disappeared into his bedroom.

"I know." McGee remained unmoved, waiting. Moments later, Tony returned with a tie around his neck, coat on, and keys in hand. Tim couldn't help but notice, as they wordlessly left the building, that his partner had kicked official dress code, donning jet-black shoes, tie, suit, shirt. Matched the deep shadows under his eyes. His badge had been polished until it gleamed reflectively, resting over his breast. On the opposite side of the suit-front, he wore a crimson pocket square.

Neither man said a word until they pulled into the cemetery where the small, grave-side funeral was being held. Tony parked on the edge of the gravel and cut the engine, but made no move to get out of the car. McGee looked at him expectantly.

"Gibbs told you to ride with me." Tony's tone of voice dared him to deny it.

McGee sighed. "Yeah."

"To baby-sit me?" Green eyes flashed testily. McGee's mouth formed a taut line.

"To make sure you got here in one piece—and sober. Now get out."

There was a hardness and authority in Tim's voice that Tony hadn't heard before, and for a second, he admired the backbone. It was a short second; when Probie walked around and opened his door, rudely prompting him to get out of the car, Tony shoved aggressively past him without a glance.

The service was officiated by a kindly, modern-minded rabbi, though it was by no means held in Jewish tradition, as Ziva had been far from practicing. The thin band of mourners stood in distinct groups. Tony and Gibbs were closest to the casket, Vance just behind. McGee and Ducky stood to the side, each with a supportive arm around crying Abby's waist. Palmer shifted uncomfortably behind them. Their faces were all stone, but none more so than DiNozzo's. And his expression didn't change when he stepped up to the open casket, last in line. Abby had done a knockout job choosing Ziva's clothes, arranging her hair and subtle make-up. She looked almost normal, with even her pendant resting in its usual place at the base of her neck. He wouldn't let himself admit that she looked good; beautiful, even. All Tony could see was the shell of a woman he knew; the image was hard to reconcile with the memory of a vibrant partner.

He'd gone back to NCIS that night, after the shooting. The incident seemed just a blur to him, but he remembered well her premonitions from the day before. When he stood staring at her, lying cold in autopsy, he cursed himself for making her a promise he couldn't keep. She was dead, her face ashen and slack, four bullets having stilled her heart, and he'd been helpless to save her. Ducky came in, and Tony pulled the sheet gently over Ziva's face, leaving hastily, not wanting to explain to the elderly gentleman how he'd signed himself out of the hospital AMA, or why he wished he was on a metal table too.

Tony was the last one to leave the cemetery. Even Gibbs had gone, squeezing his shoulder as he'd walked past. It started to rain, and big drops mottled the red stripes on the American flag draped over her closed coffin. He pondered the irony of this. Seven months ago, he'd travelled to a desert expecting to avenge her, and ended up rescuing her instead. He helped set her free from her past, from Mossad. But what for? So that she could die anyway? Exchange one nationality for another and still end up in a box?

He closed his eyes and imagined looking into her upturned face, stroking her lip lightly with his thumb, like in Paris.

"Was it worth it, Ziva David?" He whispered. He imagined how she would have smiled cheekily, or given him an odd look as she glanced up from paperwork.

He opened his eyes before giving himself time to imagine an answer to his question, just in case she'd say no. He turned away and sloshed through the grass, walking slowly to his car. He was soaked through, now. Cold seeped into his bones and made his chest, still sore and raw from his two bullets, ache with physical pain. He lay back against the Mustang's headrest. He sat there another half hour, listening to the rain drone metallically on the roof, before finally starting the engine and driving away.

His subconscious deposited him at the office. He stood lamely beside his desk with the nagging feeling that he should be doing something—_anything_—but without the slightest idea of what that might be.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs' voice sounded sharply from behind. Tony turned, unsurprised.

"Boss?"

The older man narrowed his eyes, watching his senior field agent drip puddles of rainwater on the carpet. "Have you _lost_ your mind?"

Tony pursed his lips. "Not sure, Boss," he retorted flatly.

"DiNozzo, go _home_." Gibbs read the shadow of pent-up grief in his face. "Get some rest."

"Rest?" Tony's face flushed, and his voice hit a new octave. "Maybe you haven't noticed, Gibbs," he snarled, "but Ziva's d—"

A head-slap punctuated the sentence.

"Yeah, and _you_ will be too, DiNozzo, if you catch pneumonia."

He interrupted smoothly, and an icy calm permeated the air as they stared each other down. "We'll sort this thing out—tomorrow."

_Tomorrow?_ Tony flexed his jaw, but nodded subordinately. "Fine."

He strode out of the office, anger and resentment rolling off of him in droves. He was a hazard to public safety as he careened down rain-slicked roads on his way home. Eyes burning and throat thick, he showered and changed clothes. He lay in bed that night holding his phone tightly in one hand, restless. Any other time, he would have called her, and eventually their chatter would have relaxed him, made him drowsy enough for sleep. He wanted to call her now. Hated himself when he mulled the thought over, again and again, that she wouldn't be there.

Tony rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

A/N: Omgawsh, you guys, I can't believe I'm updating again so soon. I'm so full of ideas that I'm almost bursting! But now I'm all out of things ready to type and/or post. I'm returning to the notebook and pen stage, so don't look for me again for a week, week and a half at least. I've got events every evening this week, and prom and my birthday this weekend! Gahh! So exciting! But know that I'm still working hard on this fic, and I'm loving your response to my story! (Hint, hint: maybe for my birthday present, you could leave me a review. ;p ) Keep it up! 'Till next time,

~SweetSinger2010


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Thanks so much for your feedback and birthday wishes! I'm very very glad you're interested in this story! I must say that I'm rather fond of it myself. I goofed last chapter though, when Kate reminded Tony that he was unconscious. Originally I had planned for DiNozzo to wake up in the hospital after the shooting, but I decided not to; as written, he was just asleep, having a dream. And while being unconscious and being asleep are technically the same thing, the connotations are different, etc. But enough rambling. Onward and forward we go! Enjoy!

Déjà Vu 

_Chapter 7_

Tony could swear that his alarm had never been _that loud_ before. It startled him so badly that when he leapt out of bed, pulse racing, he reached down to his hip—only to find no holster and no gun. He stood a few moments before realizing exactly where he was. Orienting himself, he heard a familiar voice echoing hollowly in his mind. Had he been dreaming of her? The way his chest heaved, it couldn't have been anything good.

He immediately wanted to call and check on her, make sure it was just him who was crazy, and that she was alright. But he suddenly remembered, muttering to himself, that he'd established this last night; Ziva was dead. The warehouse, remember? Four bullets.

The information settled, and then began the waking nightmare. Like the last three mornings, Tony's stomach filled with cold dread at the thought of the monotonous, relentless days ahead. Days during which the team would once again have to adjust itself to being a man down. Days when everything would remind them of her absence. Tony hated the way that an empty desk, the empty bullpen, could scream volumes of unspoken words in a silence.

Slowly, he readied himself for the day, passing from one task to another without any real awareness of his actions. One moment he was getting dressed, brushing his teeth, the next walking downstairs. He stopped in the third stairwell, inhaling sharply when he felt a painful catch in his side. He slammed his fist on the handrail.

"I hate getting—"

He blanched, and his voice dropped. "Getting shot."

Sick realization washed over him with overwhelming force. He pulled out his phone and let his thumb fly familiarly over the numbered keys. Two rings.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

Tony wet his lips. "Boss, I gotta—there's something—"

"Tell me about it when you get here, DiNozzo. Abby's got some new evidence."

The call disconnected. Tony kept speaking numbly. "I got some new evidence too. _I'm_ the murderer."

Abby held up two specimen jars. She shook the one in her right hand. Something clinked inside.

"This is the slug that I fired from Sanchez's weapon."

Tony shook his head. "Sanchez?"

"The last guy you shot in the warehouse," Abby supplied, lacking all of her usual exuberance. She shook the other jar. "And _this_ is one of the slugs that Ducky pulled from—"

She stopped short, swallowing convulsively. She couldn't' bring herself to finish the sentence, to say the words. _Ziva's body._

"They don't match, Gibbs." Her voice quavered. The older man leaned forward to peer into each of the jars. Tony stared over his shoulder.

"So…?"

Gibbs straightened, facing Tony. There was another shooter. The one you killed, he wasn't the one who killed _her_."

Tony took a step back, his mind reeling. "Boss, that's not—_no_." He stammered. "I went down, got back up. And _that guy_ had his weapon aimed."

"Was he the only one conscious?"

Gibbs' steely eyes narrowed. Tony glanced at Abby, whose face was contorted in distress.

"I—"

"Hey!" Gibbs bellowed, slapping the back of his head. "_Was there_ another guy?"

"I don't _know_!" Tony yelled back, eyes blazing. "Maybe. I can't remember."

Gibbs frowned heavily. "You need to hurry up and get over that concussion you sustained, DiNozzo. 'Cause we've got five bodies in autopsy, and four days ago, you told me there were _six_ at the scene!" He snapped menacingly, and stood completely unperturbed by the rage burning in his senior agent's eyes. Then Gibbs' entire demeanor changed when he turned back to Abby. He wiped a tear from her cheek and planted a kiss on her temple.

"That's good work, Abs," he murmured gently. "Can you run a trace on the gun that shot Tony and Ziva?"

"Done," she sniffled, handing him a sheet from her printer. "It was _actually_ registered."

Gibbs glanced over the information and nodded. He grabbed Tony's elbow as he strode out of the lab. "With me," he barked.

It was actually Tony who flipped the emergency stop switch in the elevator. Blue light washed over their faces.

"I screwed up."

The admission was almost as painful as…as everything else. Gibbs shifted his stance, waiting for him to continue.

"It's _my_ fault Ziva's dead, Boss."

Gibbs' mouth hardened. "We don't have time for this self-pity crap, DiNozzo." His voice was low. He reached for the switch, but Tony stepped in front of the panel.

"I'm the one who put the vests in the car, Gibbs. One too few."

"Yeah, I know."

The calm in the boss's voice made Tony want to choke. He blinked furiously, his traitorous eyes burning and pricking with tears. "You _know_?"

"Well, _yeah_, Tony," he retorted, irritation dripping from every word. He'd been expecting this. "I kind of figured that she wasn't wearing one when I saw her in the warehouse!"

"But I—I handed her one—I saw her take it—"

"You made a mistake," Gibbs growled, backing Tony into a corner. The young man stared hard at the wall. His boss didn't relent. "What do you want me to do, DiNozzo? Write you a reprimand? Give you a hard time about it?"

He shook his head, pausing for breath. "I _could_, and believe me, it's tempting." Tony flinched, and Gibbs continued. "But I know that for the rest of your life, you're going to have to wake up knowing that someone you cared about died on your watch, _because_ of you. And it's darn hard."

Gibbs started the elevator. When the doors opened on the third floor, Tony didn't move.

"You still think about Kate."

A wad of paper hit him swift in the chest. He picked it up.

"_Find him!_" Gibbs ordered, yelling over his shoulder as he walked quickly away.

"Probie," Tony spoke suddenly as they drove, Tim at the wheel. "You'd cover for me, right? If I—"

"No," McGee interrupted tersely, disliking the direction of the conversation. "Boss _specifically_ said to bring Carson in to _interrogation_."

Tony chose not to think about any reasons why McGee might be following the rules on this one. "Carson," he groused sourly. "What kind of—"

"He's _half_ white, Tony."

Again, anticipating the rest of his partner's sentence. McGee inclined his head. "There he is."

There were three men standing on a street corner, watching uneasily as the dark sedan parked at the curb and Tony and McGee got out.

"NCIS, federal agents," Tony announced, advancing across the street. He pulled back his suit coat, flashing the badge clipped to his belt and, incidentally, his Sig. He glared at the short, tattooed _vato _in the middle. "You Miguel Carson?"

The man in question froze, briefly considering that cooperation would be in his best interest. Then he looked and saw black death glinting in sea-green eyes. Screw cooperation.

"McGee!"

Tony shouted needlessly, because Tim was already rounding the building's opposite corner. They pursued Carson at break-neck speed down the alley.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I sincerely apologize for the delay in update. You have no idea how crazy things have been for me lately. Unless you're a high school senior, that is, and then you know exactly. And I've had a massive case of writer's block to boot, which is exponentially worse than being busy. But here's the next installment, and now summer's here, and I have more time to concentrate on this. And I _think_ I finally figured out how to implant a section break of sorts, denoted by XOXOX between paragraphs. Hope you enjoy!

Déjà Vu 

_Chapter 8_

Ducky clucked his tongue in acute disapproval as he applied antiseptic to McGee's skinned arm.

"And _you_," he tapped Tony's knee emphatically, "should have gone to the hospital."

Broad shoulders shrugged nonchalantly. "McGee's exaggerating. _He's_ the one who took a dirt-dive."

"Tackling a suspect," Tim cut in reprovingly. "You just _collapsed_, Tony."

"I had a hard time catching my breath is all," he quipped impatiently. "I'm fine."

He swung down from the metal table, and _prayed_ that neither of his co-workers noticed the way his knees buckled. Ducky did. He exchanged a look with McGee and the younger agent left autopsy without a word. Tony still held the edge of the table as he waited for his head to quit spinning. He stood several moments, ignoring Ducky's unwavering gaze before taking a step to leave.

"Anthony."

The agent turned back as the sliding door parted for his exit. "I'm fine, Duck," he repeated flatly. There was a stubborn set to his mouth that didn't go unnoticed by the seasoned M.E.

"It seems to me, dear boy, that physical wounds are supposed to heal instead of grow progressively worse."

"It's not—"

Tony began to protest, but then Ducky folded his arms across his chest, and he knew he couldn't get away with it. Not when the truth was that he felt like he just got shot ten minutes ago. He shifted uncomfortably, guiltily.

"It just—kinda hurts—a little. Sometimes," he lied pathetically. Ducky cocked an eyebrow.

"And just how much is '_a little_'?"

Tony sighed in mild aggravation and rubbed the back of his neck. "A lot," he muttered. "Like someone's twisting a knife in my gut and squeezing my lungs. At the same time."

"I take it that the pain _has_ been getting more severe?"

Tony's non-answer was very loud. Doctor Mallard frowned deeply, and the ensuing silence was thick. Tony eyed the door nervously.

"Hey, uh, can I go now, Duck? We have a lot of—"

"It is my duty," the elderly man interrupted authoritatively, "both as a doctor and your _friend_, to report you as medically unfit for duty."

Tony's stomach lurched, and he took a step forward. He held up his hands pleadingly. But Ducky didn't let him say a word in his defense.

"You've been through quite an ordeal this past week, Anthony." He took off his glasses and rubbed them absently with his pocket handkerchief. "We all have," he amended quietly.

DiNozzo noticed for the first time how utterly tired the doctor looked. Tony realized suddenly that they as a team had always taken Ducky for granted—this man who worked so diligently, and as the bodies of his friends came in to autopsy, confided in no one the memories of those haunting operations.

The two men looked at each other hard for several moments. In Ducky's eyes, Tony read the truth of the matter. As long as he was injured, he was a liability to the team. If they were thrown into a dangerous, volatile situation today, would he be able to cover McGee, or Gibbs? Make a judgment call? Save his own life?

"I'll—" Tony broke off, clearing his throat. "I'll tell Boss this afternoon."

Ducky nodded. "I think that's a wise decision." He paused and narrowed his eyes, carefully weighting his next words. "And Tony? _Nail_ that killer of our Miss David."

XOXOX

Tim and DiNozzo stood shoulder to shoulder in the observation room, watching in grim silence as Gibbs began to interrogate Miguel Carson. NCIS was pressing several charges against him.

"…the murder of Marine Gunnery Sergeant Parker Thompson, the kidnapping of Elizabeth Thompson, the extortion of Catherine Wallace, the attempted murder of NCIS Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, and the _murder_ of NCIS Special Agent Ziva David."

Gibbs's eyes narrowed as he finished citing the list of offenses. Carson squirmed under the signature flinty gaze, but managed to keep a fair amount of bravado in his voice.

"That _juera_ Catherine owed me money," he sneered. "I decided it was time to collect."

"So you targeted her family? To make her suffer?"

The half-breed shrugged, averting his eyes and picking at the most recent tattoo on his arm. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat back easily in his chair and regarded the criminal. He could think of a thousand different ways to break him, make him regret ever breathing. Killing an NCIS agent was not something easily forgivable on this side of hell.

Tony and McGee almost held their breath in anticipation as the boss stayed silent, wearing the criminal down with his cold stare. They waited for Gibbs to lash out at him in that deadly calm, and not relent until the killer showed signs of verbal hemorrhage. But their silver-haired leader did no such thing. He turned in his seat, a half smile-smirk on his lips, and met Tony's eyes through the glass. DiNozzo straightened his tie and took a deep breath, turning on his heel to leave observation. He paused just momentarily outside of the interrogation room, loosening his expression before smoothly exchanging places with Gibbs.

"Hey there!" Tony greeted Carson brightly as the door clicked shut. A smile was plastered on his face. " 'Member me?"

"I ain't never seen you before," he growled belligerently.

Tony laughed humorlessly. "Sure ya have." He leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "Thanks to you, I've got two bullet-shaped bruises on my chest."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Tony made a popping noise with his lips and stared at Carson for a moment before leaning back. "Ok," he conceded easily. He pulled out his phone and flipped through his images. He turned the screen to Carson. "Well, what about her?"

The man inspected the picture carefully. It was one of Ziva, a bewitching smile in place, standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Carson whistled.

"She's kinda hot." His eyes glinted, and he leaned forward, dropping his voice tauntingly. "Hey, _ese_, tell me: was she good in be—"

Tony slammed his fist down on the table. His false front shattered, and his temper shot from simmer to boil. "_Have some respect!_" He roared, skin turning scarlet from the neck up. If he winced at the flaring pain in his abdomen, no one noticed. "She's dead."

"That sucks."

"Yeah," Tony snarled. "It does suck. For you. You're going away for murder."

"Far as I'm concerned," the suspect leered carelessly, "it was self defense. The two of _you_ shot first."

Tony, Gibbs, and McGee immensely enjoyed watching the play of emotions on Carson's face as he realized he'd just ratted himself out.

"He's got 'im," Gibbs murmured approvingly. On the other side of the glass, Tony continued.

"So here's what I think happened," he said plaintively. "My partner and I came in, busted up your little party. When the dust settled, _you_ were on the ground, playing dead along with one of your injured buddies. He started to get up. _You_ saw that we lowered our defenses, and took six _very_ cheap shots from the floor, knowing that I'd shoot _him_ and you could get away."

"You can't prove that," Carson growled.

"Oh, but I can." Tony smiled condescendingly. "Our forensics expert did, in fact, prove that the shots that killed Agent David were fired from a gun registered in your name. Furthermore, we recovered the weapon, tested it, and found that it had been fired recently. Your prints were _all_ over it, amigo."

Carson chewed his tongue, trying to think of a way to get out of this one. He came up empty. Tony held his eyes challengingly.

"You have the right to remain silent," he stated at length, rising to his full height and towering over the man. "Anything you say can and _will_—I promise—be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one, one will be—"

"I know!" Carson snapped irritably. "I waive my rights."

"Good," Tony spat. He planted his palms on the table as fiery pain suddenly knifed through his chest. He inhaled sharply. Carson smirked.

"Your boss shoulda kep' you at your desk, homeboy. You don't look too good."

"You made a mistake, you know," Tony whispered roughly. Only Carson could hear. "Thinking you could get away with it. The last time one of our agents got shot, Gibbs pursued the killer to the edge. You didn't think we were gonna do the same for you?" He paused, wetting his lips. "But you did more than shoot Gibbs's agent. You shot _my girl_."

Tony straightened abruptly, and turned to the window where he knew his colleagues were watching anxiously. "McGee! Take him away."

Gibbs was the first to emerge from the observation room, meeting Tony with a guarded look as soon as he too stepped out in the hallway.

"Go write it up, DiNozzo."

Tony nodded curtly. "Yes, Boss."

McGee walked past with Carson just then, and the scowling thug called to Tony.

" 'Ey! I forgot to tell you; while you were out cold, I picked this up from your friend. I gotta say, it looked good on her."

Though hampered by handcuffs, Carson reached into his pocket and then shoved something into Tony's grasp. It was small and metallic. Ziva's Star of David felt cold in his palm.

Rage welled from deep within DiNozzo's heart and manifested in the form of a punch to Carson's nose.

McGee, horrified, turned to his boss, while simultaneously keeping hold of the thrashing, bleeding criminal. Tony stalked away. Gibbs shook his head and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"Geez, McGee." Mock exasperation colored the fake reprimand. "You should watch where you're going."

XOXOX

There was no sense of satisfaction in having caught and arrested Carson. None at all. It hadn't been like watching Saleem Ulman die. There was no gruesome pride, no dark sense of justice having been served. There was only utter emptiness.

Tony was alone in the bull-pen, reclining in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, a hand resting over his eyes. Lying still, he somehow tolerated the almost intolerable pain that now burned in his chest and abdomen, concentrating solely on breathing in and out, slowly. Disobediently, his mind drifted back to last year.

Ziva dying (or so they thought) in a shipwreck off the coast of _nowhere_ had seemed—

Well, it had seemed just about right.

Not that there was anything _right_ about it. It had seemed so inexplicable at the time. But she _would_ just disappear without a trace and then die without even so much as a good-bye for Abby, or a chilling insult for Tony. That was Ziva. It wasn't intentional. She hadn't so much meant to leave a string of injured people in her wake. She was just on a mission, trying to convince herself that she was still good for something, all the while frantically running to escape her many personal demons.

And they all knew how that had turned out. Tony spent the entire summer miserable, blaming himself for her supposed death (if Ziva's best friend hadn't shot her boyfriend, would Gibbs have been forced to choose between daughter and son?) until finally action had been taken.

_Course-correction; cleaning up a failure. The kind with casualties._

Ziva was really dead this time and, again, Tony could not deny his own involvement. If he'd done his job right, she'd have been wearing a bullet-proof vest and there wouldn't have been a funeral. And there wouldn't be a beating heart to propel life-blood through Carson's body, either.

Yeah, Carson was getting put away for life. And if Gibbs had anything to do with it, it'd be life without prayer of parole. So what? It was like a slap on the wrist. _Jail!_ Didn't change the fact that the team was irrevocably one short, and the gaping hole could never be filled. Tony'd have to quit before he let anyone try.

Now _there_ was a novel idea.

Why not just….quit? It would be simple. He could just walk out the door, and never come back.

Except there'd always be a voice, nagging. Persistently.

_Did you really think you could get away with it? __**Really?**_

If Tony didn't drink himself to death, his Ziva-imitating conscience would drive him to an early grave.

A/N: More to come, and the next two chapters or so are going to be REALLY good! I hope. Umm, I'm having a lot of trouble with this, so don't give up on me. Also, I know that this story hasn't really shown a lot of the romance that's advertised by the genre, but hang tight. I've got it all sorted out in my mind. Want to brighten my day? Go check out my recent one-shot, _Rain_. It wants attention.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, but hang tight, people! It's fixing to get exciting. :) I've been building to this point, constructing carefully. Hope it all falls together for you! It's strange and clumsy and _long_, but I've _so_ been looking forward to this part. Note that after the first section, the italicized sentences are Tony's flashbacks, sort of. Umm, you'll figure it out. Enjoy! And REVIEW! I really, really, really want to know what you think.

Déjà Vu 

_Chapter 9_

_"Did you really think you could get away with it? __**Really**__?"_

_ Tony could see Ziva's face reflected in the smooth glass. Dark shadows fell over her eyes and her lips twitched sardonically. She turned, a slender hand poised on her hip, and the fingers digging into her flesh demanded an answer thirty seconds ago. _

_ Tony's stomach dropped when he realized that they were in the same room. He wasn't in observation, and she wasn't interrogating a suspect. She was interrogating __**him**__. He swallowed nervously._

_ "Get—away with...__**what**__ exactly?" He spoke jerkily. He hadn't felt this intimidated by anyone—Gibbs included—since…well, never. _

_ She dropped into the chair across from him and chuckled darkly. "Screwing up."_

_ "Um," Tony stalled, not daring to look directly at her. "To which incident are you referring? 'Cause there have been several over the course of my career."_

_ Again she laughed, and he flinched. He'd rather she punch him in the nose than make a sound like that. She stood and paced around the table. He shifted; having a righteously angry Ziva hovering in his blind-spot set off __**all kinds**__ of mental warning bells and red flags. It was a little bit more than his nerves could handle. _

_ She sensed this, and leapt for the jugular._

_ "Well," she began slowly, her voice little more than a deep, threatening rumble in her throat. "Jenny first comes to mind."_

_ She cocked her head, and he met her eyes for the first time. Open hatred shimmered in their depths. "And then Michael," she continued ruthlessly. _

_ "Jenny—L.A.—you—you were there, Ziva," he stammered, flailing helplessly, grasping at straws. "You were __**there**__! And Rivkin…that was…" _

_ He trailed off, finally. He couldn't say that Rivkin was an accident any more than he could say that he didn't bear the brunt of responsibility for Jenny's death. Because it wasn't exactly, and he did. Lying about it now would just be adding insult to injury, to both of them. But Ziva was out of line here. __**Way**__ out of line. Hadn't they moved past this crippling blame game?_

_ "What are you getting at?" His tone was icy, but not quite cold enough to conceal raw pain. Ziva leaned down so that he could feel her breath hot against his neck. _

_ "I'm dead, too," she murmured. "Because of you." _

_ "I know that." His temper flared suddenly. "What do you want from me, Ziva? An apology?"_

_ "No," she hissed lividly. "I want an explanation."_

_ He shook his head numbly. "There—there isn't one."_

_ She cocked her head. "Carson?"_

_ "Carson," Tony repeated flatly. "What about him?"_

_ Apparently, Ziva's insane Mossad-ninja skills hadn't diminished with her passing. She hauled Tony out of his seat by his collar and shoved him hard against the wall. She pressed her forearm against his neck, causing his breath to rasp as he struggled to draw it. _

_ "The man put four in my chest!" She seethed, eyes wild and swimming in tears. "And you let him __**go**__?"_

_ "I'm sorry," Tony whispered. No apology had ever been more sincere. "So, so sorry, Ziva."_

_ She heard a break in his voice and eased her hold. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly as a realization washed over her. "You loved me, didn't you?" _

_ "I still do," he breathed raggedly. The correction was fierce and automatic. They were both stunned by his unprecedented openness. The impromptu confession settled in the room and Tony kicked himself mentally—and he could almost hear Kate saying 'I told you so.'—for not having told her when it might have mattered. Nonetheless, he continued darkly. "I thought you might have figured that one out after I took my little African vacation."_

_ Ziva jerked away from him fast; almost as if he'd burned her. She turned and for the next several moments, Tony found himself admiring the slim curvature of her waist from behind. After a short eternity passed, she faced him again and his eyes met hers. Therein he saw reflected accusatory statements and mutual anguish. _

_ Why did you have to make such a horrible mistake?_

_ Don't you want to know what could have happened between us?_

_ I was just beginning to enjoy living again. Did it have to end like this?_

_ "Tell me then," she choked, for once unashamed of showing emotion. "Why am __**I**__ dead instead of __**you**__?"_

_ It was she who burned him now. She might as well have screamed the words. She asked again, more insistently. _

_ "__**Why did I die instead of you?**__"_

XOXOX

"Boss," Tony gasped, slurring his words as he swung his legs off his desk. In his state of semi-consciousness, he knew that Gibbs was somewhere near. Gibbs was always somewhere near. He blinked rapidly, trying to dismiss the dream and the nausea that came with it. "Boss, I quit. I quit."

Gibbs looked up from his computer screen and across the bull-pen at his wild-eyed senior agent. He raised his eyebrows. The gesture was a question in and of itself, which made the accompanying words were superfluous, really.

"Wanna run that by me again, DiNozzo?"

Tony shook his head but answered to affirm. "I quit. The job is—and Ziva—I quit. I can't do it."

"Oh, ok." Gibbs patronized him with a smile and then stood and walked to the younger man's desk, hovering confrontationally. "What are you gonna do, then?"

"Drink." Tony answered without thinking about it first. It was a too-honest answer. Because both of them knew that it wasn't a bull statement. In his right mind, Tony would've made a morbid crack about going back to Baltimore PD, to allay Gibbs's immediate concerns for his well-being. But DiNozzo was still reeling from his dream, and from everything else. And what little he still possessed of his right mind vanished with Gibbs's unusually severe head-slap. The hit set off a domino-effect pain wave that rattled down to his toes. Tony sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Gibbs returned to his own desk, pinning Tony with a hard glare. "Go home, DiNozzo."

The annoyance and deep empathy in the order rankled Tony's soul. Whether or not Gibbs knew this, he continued.

"Go see a doctor and then _get some rest_. I don't want to see you here until the beginning of next week. And I swear, DiNozzo, you had _better_ show up on Monday or you'll be _fired_ a heck of a lot quicker than you can quit."

Tony stared blankly, anger threatening to make him do something terribly rash. And then he nodded in spite of himself. "Yes, Boss."

Just like that.

He stood and shouldered his backpack, wincing when his chest tightened. He cast a glance over his shoulder as he left. " 'Bye, Boss."

Gibbs didn't wait two seconds before letting his fingers fly over the keypad of his desk phone. The call was answered after the first ring.

"Duck," he began before the M.E. could offer a salutation. His voice was worried, almost fearful. "You said DiNozzo came in hurt this afternoon?"

XOXOX

Tony leaned back against the elevator wall and closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing in and out, as the machine made its descent. The fourth _ding_ told him he'd reached the parking garage. The doors parted, but Tony didn't step out. He almost hurt too much to move. So he didn't appreciate the sudden, melodic peal of laughter that nearly startled him out of his skin.

"Going somewhere, Tony?" A woman's voice mocked him laughingly. "You look absolutely _terrible_."

His eyes flew open and his mind whirled furiously as he tried to figure out the possibility of the impossibility before him. He replied mentally before he rejoined aloud; the ghost of a sour comment made distant months ago.

_No one ever accused you of having tact._

Any other time he would have replied with, _I got shot last week; what's your excuse?_

But the truth of the matter was that she didn't look terrible at all. In fact, she was a sight for sore eyes.

Even if he _was_ sure that she was only a hallucination. He knew that he could _never_ tell Gibbs about this. Never. Because it was insane.

_If I could drag her back, I'd do it in a heartbeat. _

"I _swear_," he muttered to himself, rehearsing what he'd say on the off chance that someone found out he was losing his mind. "I haven't been popping pills."

_But that's impossible. _

"Well," she said lightly, stepping into the elevator. "That's…good to know."

_Ziva David is dead._

_Ziva David is dead._

_Ziva David is dead. _

Tony hit a button, and the doors stayed open. He turned, and stared. And she pretended not to notice. Until her impatience got the best of her.

"Will you _please_ stop looking at me like that?"

He shifted his gaze, but not his mental focus. "Ziva…"

He whispered her name, almost reverently. Which made his next comment sound unnecessarily blunt. "You're dead."

Her face drained of color, and her backpack slipped slightly off one shoulder. "You're _kidding_."

"Nope."

Ziva shook her head, bewildered. "_How?_ I have not been to work in a week! What could I possibly have done that Gibbs is—_Oh_," she stopped short, eyes darting nervously. "Unless it's about the paperwork on the—"

"No, you're _dead,_ Ziva." Tony interrupted flatly. "Gone, not living, deceased."

_She was dead, her face ashen and slack, four bullets having stilled her heart, and he'd been helpless to save her._

Her eyebrows knit tightly, and she ran her hands lightly over her chest and stomach. "Not last time I checked." She leaned toward her partner and dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. "Tony, are you _drunk_?"

He didn't answer her question, and she wondered if he'd even heard it. He kept rambling, wildly.

"Ziva, we attended your funeral, and you were _definitely_ dead. I saw you. We tracked down the shooter and he's going away for murder. _Your_ murder."

_He stepped up to the open casket, last in line. He wouldn't let himself admit that she looked good; beautiful, even._

Ziva blinked, and tried to make sense of him. Finally, she decided to indulge him, because there was a manic, grieved look in his eyes that she'd never seen before, and she prayed that she'd never have to see it again.

"Ok, Tony," she began slowly and eased toward him, holding her hands out and folding them into his. "_How_ did I die?"

The scene replayed itself in his mind's eye for the hundredth time. His gaze was fixed, and distant.

_They took their position, standing on either side of a rusted, sagging door. "Stay behind me," he ordered tersely._

"I wanted to protect you," he explained roughly. "I knew you weren't a hundred percent that day."

_Tony leaned across her lap and opened the glove-box, tossing up a bottle of Motrin. 'Don't wanna see that glazed look in your eyes if we run in to trouble.'_

"We went in. It was easy, at first."

_Shots fired back to back. The thug __had__ tried to pop him. The bullet embedded in a wall. Ziva's was a kill-shot. She nodded. Tony kicked in another door. __**Not**__ clear. _

"After that, it was a maelstrom."

_So many shots were fired that he couldn't count them all. Couldn't hear anything, either. The only thing that registered in the blur was the pulsing in his hand, weapon discharging._

"There were six guys when we busted in, and after the fire-fight, you and I were the only ones left standing, as the saying goes." Tony pursed his lips. "Or so I thought."

_One, two, three, four, five six._ _Fired in rapid succession. One of them took two, the other four. _

Tony shuddered, and Ziva found herself tightening her grasp on his hands to try and pull him back to the present.

"And then?" She prodded gently.

"Next thing I know, I'm on the floor, and your blood is everywhere."

_Tony couldn't control the violent trembling of his own hand enough to feel for a pulse in her neck. A warm liquid, colored dark, brilliant red, pooled beneath Ziva's body._

Zivastared at her partner in a fascination of horror. Something was not right. Tony wasn't Tony. She noticed how his eyes were sullen, and his face pale-grey. She was nearly pressed up against him, and she could hear the shallow, labored sound of his breathing. Was it grief catching up, or years of anxiety taking toll? Was he ill? She didn't know. She didn't think she really had the time to figure it out. Her next move would be to reach for her phone and make a 9-1-1 call to Gibbs. But first, she had to clear something up with her partner. Maybe it would set him straight, calm him down.

"Tony, I _was_ shot four times in the warehouse." She searched his eyes, trying to impress upon him the seriousness of her statement. She squeezed his fingers, and spoke slowly, placing an emphasis on each word. "But I was wearing a vest."

"No you weren't," he responded immediately, coloring. "It's _my_ fault, Ziva. I put them in the trunk of the car, and—"

He couldn't continue. The stunning truth hit him like a bolt of lightning.

_Ziva turned and saw him still standing at the rear of the car, staring into the empty trunk. Something about the hard set of his jaw was unsettling. _

_I'm the one who put the vests in the car, Gibbs. One too few._

"I didn't want you to see," he whispered faintly as the memory came crashing back. "I didn't… want you to see that _I_ wasn't wearing a vest. That's why—that's why I could barely…"

His head shot up when she called him. He shut the trunk of the car and zipped his jacket almost to his chin as he jogged toward her. There was something strange in his smile.

And his voice trailed off.

_He staggered backward and his head met the concrete with a sickening crack. DiNozzo felt like he'd been disembodied. He saw himself expend tremendous effort to pull up on one knee, shoot and kill one of the scum-bags they'd left injured on the floor. Saw himself fight against unconsciousness, gasping, coughing, choking for air as he crawled toward his partner. They'd hit him full in the chest. _

He began to slide down the elevator wall, and Ziva let herself go down with him. She clutched at his front. As she bent over him, her eyes dark and concerned, a glimmer of something dangling from her throat caught his attention. He reached for it. Her Star of David.

Was it? He tried to remember.

_He stepped up to the open casket, last in line. Ziva looked almost normal, with even her pendant resting in its usual place at the base of her neck._

"Tony?"

"The funeral—your funeral—you were wearing this. But…but then Carson…"

His words became slurred and incoherent.

_Carson reached into his pocket and then shoved something into Tony's grasp. It was small and metallic. Ziva's Star of David felt cold in his palm. _

Ziva pulled her hands from his and gasped at the blood that slicked her palms. It was the same blood that covered his shirt. His eyes drooped and fluttered. Suddenly, and for no reason at all, his rapid-fire mind turned to a scene from four years ago. Sitting in a car, on a rainy night, watching a ship that half blew up only moments later and drove Gibbs to a fake early retirement.

He smirked wanly; Ziva had had him all figured out.

_Tony, your dying words will be, 'I have seen this film.'_

Her face blurred in front of his. He saw her mouth moving, but couldn't hear the words. He reached into his pocket. Where his hand should have closed around a Star of David necklace, it closed around a bullet.

His vision rapidly faded.

"I've seen this film."


	10. Chapter 10

Déjà Vu

_Chapter 10_

_Tony fought against unconsciousness, gasping, coughing, choking for air as he crawled toward his partner. One of the shots had hit him full in the chest. _

_Ziva was non-responsive when he rasped out her name. The few feet felt like unending yards as he dragged himself to her. She lay with a side of her face pressed in the ground, her dominant arm outstretched, slender fingers loosely curled around her weapon just inches away. Tony couldn't control the violent trembling of his own hand enough to feel for a pulse in her neck. Darkness crowded his vision as breathing became more and more difficult, and fire consumed his abdomen. But he had to know that she was alright. When he felt the flow of her blood throb against his finger, he relaxed. _

_The voices he heard in his earwig melded and meshed together. One by one, his senses lapsed, his pain eased, _

_And he let the darkness win. _


End file.
